New World Fairy Tales

by Cassandra Parkin

  ‘No,’ she said, her face little-girl serious. ‘I don’t do office relationships.’

  But he could hear her breathing faster; he knew that, with time, with patience, she’d be his.

  Could have been happy, too, if they’d met on any other street than that one. But as it was, the Money Train was already at the station, the porter beckoning them aboard.

  You ain’t married. No, I ain’t asking a question, I’m telling you, fact: you — ain’t — married. How do I know? Cuz you’re down here at one in the morning drinking with a homeless guy, that’s how. So you won’t know what it’s like to build a life together. Jack and Aisling, a pigeon pair of starry-eyed dreamers. She wouldn’t even date him till she went back to Harvard, and when they did get started, they took it slowly. Both afraid of damaging this precious, fragile thing growing between them. They finally fell into bed together one glorious Spring afternoon when Jack got his first promotion. Ah, they came fast to him then; Wall Street’s good to its golden boys.

  Still they kept it quiet, hiding where no-one from Wall Street ever looked. Took the boat to see the Statue of Liberty, holding hands like teenagers. Went up the Chrysler, took in a view even better than the one from Red Giant’s offices. Rode the subway to Coney Island, Jack winning and winning on the shooting galleries.

  The monster in the closet was Mr Red Giant, who still didn’t know Jack was slipping around with his daughter. Coupla nights Jack actually woke up in a cold sweat, dreaming of deep water filling his lungs. But by that time, the little ole farmer boy from Idaho was an established asset to Red Giant, a lead producer, bringing home the bacon time after time, and they rewarded him accordingly. First an office, then a corner office, all the time that compensation package creeping upwards and upwards. Then a suite with its own bathroom attached. Can’t have the reigning monarchs pissing in the same urinals as the aspiring heirs; one of those hungry little suckers might just reach over and chop his dick right off. You think I’m joking, dontcha? Easy to see you ain’t never ridden the Money Train . . .

  Ah, the Money Train; God help us all, the Money Train. First you hear the scream of the whistle, so loud it hurts your ears. Then there’s this — unearthly thing — twice the height of a man, and maybe a hundred feet long, thundering towards you, grabbing the air right outta your lungs, sucking you into its path so you have to hold onto something. It rolls into the platform, you think, Man, that’s the scariest thing I ever saw. You look at the wheels, the steam, the sweating men shovelling coal. Looks like one of Lucifer’s angels, sent forth from the gates of hell to claim you.

  Then the door opens and there’s a man waving you on, and damn if that ain’t a ticket in your hand.

  You pat the red velvet seats as you sit down; just a few stops, you think to yourself, then I’ll get off. You can’t quite believe it when the wheels start turning, and man, what a rush. You take your turn shovelling coal; brutal, backbreaking work, so hard you can hardly take it, but it’s worth it, because you know what’s coming up. And then you take your break in the restaurant car, and you just can’t believe you made it, they invited you in, you’re sat right here on the Money Train with the crisp linen napkins and the bottles of champagne. Just a few stops, you think again. Just a few stops and then, I swear, I’ll get off.

  Then, the scary thing. You get used to it. That speed, that noise, it starts to seem natural. You get used to the heat, the swaying motion, the world going by in a blur. You remember how it feels to be one of those folks at the level-crossing, forced to stop while the Money Train goes by, and you like the feeling. The whole world stops for you! People bring you stuff on silver platters, the prices are insane, but hell, who cares, right? You’re on the Money Train! Who gives a shit about the mark-up?

  And before you know it, the Money Train’s got you good. Ain’t no way you’re getting off, not until the Money Train’s taken everything you’ve got, not until the man in the uniform comes by and says, Hey, buddy, this is your stop. You want to stay on longer, but it ain’t never been your ride; someone else was working the strings the whole time, figuring out when to shove you back out into the cold. The whole infernal contraption screeches to a halt and the porter flings open the door and tosses you out. And then you’re standing on the platform in a cloud of smoke, watching the train roll out again, and you’re poorer and older and dirtier, stood someplace you never intended on going, and you can finally see again how fucking insane the whole thing is — but the Money Train don’t care. It just rolls on and on, out of the station, taking the next poor suckers on to the end of their personal line.

  So where did it all go wrong for Jack and Aisling? They started out with such high hopes, such magnificent fuckin’ ideals. But there ain’t nobody alive can reform the Money Train; it gets to everyone in the end. And then one night, Jack met Charlie. After that, it was only a matter of time: Doomsday clock at the station counting down, counting the hours and minutes and seconds till the crash.

  Jack and Jerry in a bar in Harlem; two City slickers out on the razzle, celebrating their first truly obscene bonus. Jerry introduced them, maybe just being friendly, maybe trying to drive the thin end of that wedge between Jack and Aisling, who knows? Nobody made him say yes. Hey, Jack, say hello to Charlie, said Jerry, and there was no denying the buzz between them, the instant connection. Five minutes later, they were locked in a cubicle in the men’s room, Jack screaming in ecstasy, Oh, my God, Jesus fucking Christ, that’s so fucking beautiful, ohhhh! and when he came down from the peak, the sound of someone in the next cubicle banging on the wall, Hey, buddy, you wanna keep the noise down in there? Jack laughed and banged back, Whatsa matter, pal, you never been in love?

  Jack and Charlie, lost in each other. He didn’t care who heard them together, didn’t care about anything. He’d never felt anything like it. She set him on fire; every part of his body buzzed, tingled, sang. He staggered back into the bar, swimmy-eyed and grinning like a madman.

  ‘Pretty good fun, huh?’ said Jerry.

  ‘Pretty good fun,’ said Jack, in a daze.

  Next morning, he couldn’t stand to look at himself in the mirror. Had to go to work without a shave, screaming horrors sat on his shoulder, gibbering in his ear. What had he been thinking? He was a nice boy, a good boy, raised decent, knew better than to behave like that. Charlie was poison, she was toxic; the deadest of cul-de-sacs. He was meeting Aisling for lunch, their favourite restaurant; couldn’t make himself walk over there. Felt like he didn’t deserve to be near her. Felt like he wanted to die. Felt like he wanted to see Charlie again, need burned into his brain . . . He pushed the thought away.

  He called Aisling, put her off till the evening. Took a company limo down Fifth Avenue to Tiffany’s, marched in and laid his sliver of necromantic plastic on the counter. I want to spend as much money as I possibly can, he declared firmly, and naturally they obliged. He wasn’t the first one, not even the first that day. The clerks at Tiffany’s all know when Bonus Time rolls around on Wall Street.

  Proposed that night over a criminally expensive meal; she cried as soon as she saw the box. She was a nice girl, but she had the same weakness girls have everywhere — the rainbow flash from a diamond blinds them.

  She should have seen that night it was already too late for them. Spending enough on one meal to keep a poor family afloat for a year; beguiled by a rock mined in conditions so obscene they’d neither of ’em have lasted a day there. They’d set out with good intentions, but the system already had its claws in them.

  But there ain’t nothing so blind as a woman with a ring on her finger. Nothing apart from the man who thinks he’s just bought her off with it.

  Fast-forward a little. Mr Red Giant’s first instinct was to take Jackie boy somewhere nice and quiet-like and get going with the pliers, but they finally came to an arrangement; one thing Jack had learned by now was that just about anything’s for sale for the right price. Ole Red la
id out Jack’s targets for the next quarter, an impossible number that made Jack swallow hard. Then he doubled them. Then he grinned, and tripled them. If Jack made his numbers, Red would consent to the wedding.

  Nearly killed Jack, but he did it. The look on Red’s face when Jack brought the paperwork — enough to turn milk sour through an iron door.

  Wedding of the century, naturally. Tulle and ribbons and decadence; live music and dead guests. Jerry was Best Man; from the look on Red’s face, Jack was the Worst Man He’d Ever Laid Eyes On, but Jack was too happy to care.

  ‘I guess I was wrong about New York,’ said his mother, sniffing.

  ‘The day you step out of line’s the day I kill you,’ growled Red, glaring.

  ‘I’d buy a gun and keep it handy,’ said Jerry, only half-joking.

  ‘Do you take this woman . . .?’ said the priest, on auto-pilot.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack, to all of them. He’d raided the palace and carried off the princess; Red could rant and storm, but Aisling would be in Jack’s bed that night. And in the bathroom, while Aisling danced with her daddy, Jack the little laddie was biting his lip and trying to keep quiet as Charlie took him up and up into that high, soaring emptiness only she knew how to help him reach.

  Afterwards he leant his forehead on the mirror, staring at his reflection. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, powered by his pounding heart.

  ‘Never again,’ he told himself.

  Never again.

  The Money Train just kept rolling for Jack and Aisling, deal after deal after killer, impossible deal. After Jack closed on the voice-rec deal, there was the Freedive project — supposed to go to Prickly Tree, but the boss-man topped himself and Jack managed to buy the rights while the company floundered. You ever Freedived, College Boy? Nah, I thought not. Probably only a few thousand people in the whole world can afford it. Little nosepiece that pulls the air right outta the water — damnedest thing you ever saw in your life. After that, some domestic appliance work, dull but profitable. Seems we Americans just can’t get enough of our cute little toasters and our adorable little waffle makers.

  What, the Freediving thing? Nah, I ain’t tried it either. Maybe I ain’t even heard of it. Maybe I’m just making it up to mess with ya. This is a story, remember, not even my own, just something I heard in a bar one day — you ain’t never getting my tale outta me, College Boy. All I got for you is Jack’s train ride, and its terrible ending.

  For a while, you can fool yourself you’ve got the whole thing under control. Jack had it all, or so he thought. He had Aisling; he had the stratospheric career; he had the swank Manhattan penthouse, the gracious New England country home, the simple beach-house on the Cape; the staff, the cars, the use of the personal jet; and if, in that crazy, sleepless run-up to their wedding day, he’d had to make the odd deal that didn’t live up to the standards he’d set himself, so what, right? It had all been for love. And if, over time, he was letting things slip, cutting corners, squeezing percentages, investing in companies who weren’t as squeaky clean as he’d like, well, he was still doing a thousand times better than that black-hearted reprobate lurking at the end of the corridor, screwing everyone who crossed his path, and all the time watching and waiting for Jack to step outta line so he could kill him. Told himself Aisling had it all too: the homes, the lifestyle, what he’d begun to think of as a nice little career of her own.

  She wasn’t willing to sell out, you see. Still shooting for the coffee-percolator vision. She gave investment advice to charities, ethical portfolio, reduced fees, great returns too. They loved her, swore she was a saint who’d change the world one day. Jack’s take on it? The first time he made a deal he knew Aisling wouldn’t — the first time he screwed over some poor sucker with a good idea and no capitalisation — he smiled tolerantly and thought, Ah, but it’s only because of me she can be so ethical. Yeah, he actually let that traitor thought slip past his defences, that he was the one making the sacrifices.

  Truth was, he fucking loved it. The power. The terror. The unbelievable amounts of money.

  And, naturally, some of that money went on Charlie.

  It began as an occasional thing, just the odd stolen night in the bar. Told himself it was nothing to do with Aisling, nothing that would ever touch her. The lies men tell themselves when they know they’re doing something unforgiveable. The next day he’d wake up alone in his bed in the clouds of Manhattan, sweating and cold with the shame of it — and craving her company again.

  Just the odd stolen night at first, maybe once a month, maybe less, usually when he and Jerry were really tying one on. A clever girl, Charlie; always knew how to find him. She was an expensive habit, but he could afford her. Hell, he could afford anything.

  Just the odd stolen night, maybe once a month. Well, maybe over time it was creeping up to two or three times a month, but he could handle that, right? He always picked nights when Aisling wasn’t around, didn’t want her to see him when he crawled home barely able to speak. Nonetheless, she knew, the way women always know when their man’s playing away. She took on a junior — bright young thing she poached from her daddy — made fewer road trips and came home early. Jack tried to act pleased. Truth was, he wanted Charlie so bad he could hardly think straight.

  Where to meet her? What was the smallest risk? He could meet her in a bar — but then going home to Aisling afterwards . . . Could smuggle her up to his office, but the risk of Red catching them . . . Or go to a hotel — yeah — that could work —

  He engineered a fake trip away, meticulous planning, conscious all the time that ole Red was watching, waiting, with murder on his mind. Would you believe Jackie boy hadn’t never booked a hotel room his whole life? First he was too poor, then he was too rich. But he found a nice place in mid-town where the concierge understood. Cash payment, and no questions about visitors who didn’t check in at the front desk.

  Spent the night in Charlie’s arms; didn’t sleep a wink. Dragged himself into the office the next morning like a walking corpse.

  ‘You all right, boss?’ his secretary asked.

  ‘Fine,’ he muttered. Staggered into the bathroom and threw up.

  The lies men tell themselves.

  After that, there was no chance he could keep it under control. Charlie was on his mind the whole time, every minute, every second. He met her in airports, in hotels and bars; every business trip he took, Charlie was along for the ride. He craved her constantly. Aisling had been talking about a baby, but naturally there was no fuckin’ chance of that happening; Charlie took all his energy. Blamed it on pressure of work, then when she asked him tell me about it, maybe I can help, he got angry and yelled at her to get off my back, damn it, what the hell would you know about it with your fucking charity work and your — then hated himself for the look on her face.

  Thing was, he really was feeling the pressure. Work was harder now, the money not so easy to find, holes starting to appear in the numbers. His particular trip on the Money Train was reaching its end; it was nearly time for the porter to open the door and toss him out. The deals were tougher to make — or maybe they just seemed tougher, maybe he was losing his touch. By now he was doing the one thing he’d sworn he’d never do — smuggling Charlie up to his plushy office, getting it on with her right down the corridor from Red, looking at his hands shaking afterwards as he tried to pour the coffee and thinking, Shit, this really has to stop, she’s going to kill me . . . and she wasn’t a cheap mistress to keep either; she was the best of the best, his Charlie girl, the cream of the fucking crop. Had to take short-cuts to keep it all going, dancing around the edges of the law. Then he had to stop dancing and start walking, all the way over that line and down, down, down into the murky world of corporate malfeasance. Screwing over the people he was investing in. Juggling money. Hiding losses on one deal with profits from another, moving the hole around, hoping he’d find a way to fill it before someone c
aught on. Sometimes he came home sweating with fear at the thought of the secrets he was hiding; the things he’d done; the stuff he’d stolen; the damage he was doing; the lives he was destroying.

  But he was on the Money Train, and he didn’t know how to get off. Just knew he was heading for an almighty crash. He saw it coming; but there wasn’t nothing he could do. If you’ll forgive me an abrupt change in my metaphorical direction — even the world’s lousiest farmer knows that eventually, your chickens come home to roost.

  You got any more in that bottle?

  Hmmm. Ain’t nothing like the burn of a quality Scotch whisky.

  No, I am not avoiding the fucking subject. Stop tryin’ to analyse me, you sanctimonious prick, or you’re gonna see my ugly side. You know nothing about me, College Boy, and you never will. That’s the one fearful beauty of this godforsaken shit-hole: nobody knows who you really are.

  The last day of Jack’s life began like any other. He and Aisling were barely speaking by now, barely even meeting, just lying in that cherrywood sleigh-bed, back to back, Jack counting losses and wondering how much longer he could hide it from Ole Red, and Aisling — ah, ain’t a man anywhere knows what a woman thinks about at a time like that, and I’m no fuckin’ different. Sometimes Jack heard her crying. Couldn’t see how to make it stop.

  So it was a shock to hear Aisling’s voice in his assistant’s office. I don’t care what he’s doing in there, Beatrice, I’m his wife. I need to see him. Right now. And Beatrice doing her best to stall her: Mrs English, ma’am, I do know who you are, of course I do, I just really don’t think —

  Trapped in his office with Charlie, his wife at the door. Like a moment in a nightmare. No way out.